


The Marriage of True Minds

by PudentillaMcMoany



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Flower Crowns, Hair Braiding, M/M, Pining, Slash, Talking Animals, Vaguely disneyesque situations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:11:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7449187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PudentillaMcMoany/pseuds/PudentillaMcMoany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A spell goes wrong and Childermass and Segundus find themselves married to each other. Segundus panics, Childermass pines, creatures of the forest try to braid Segundus's hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlexSimon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexSimon/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Marriage of True Minds does not Admit Impediments.

“Now please extend your left arm, Mr Childermass.”

“I have a bad feeling about this, Mr Segundus”

“I- perhaps you would rather cast the spell yourself?”

“I trust your abilities. I do not trust Ormskirk as much.”

Here John Segundus, who blushed often and endearingly, blushed; his head was bent just so that his hair fell on his eyes, in the way that always made an ache rise in John Childermass’s chest.

“We shall have to make do with what we have, Mr Childermass.”

“That we shall,” said Childermass, and proffered his arm to Segundus, who was fretting with a silk rope.

“I will now bind our wrists.”

Childermass nodded, and then hesitated. “What I do not understand,” he said cautiously, again lowering his arm against his side, “Is how binding _our_ wrists will bind _the forest_ to our will.”

“I suppose, Mr Childermass, that it is the metaphoric power of magic at work here.”

“It seems too-” started Childermass, but his voice chocked in his throat; Segundus had gently taken his wrist with long, pleasantly cold fingers. “-easy,” he finished, somewhat weakly. And then: “You are set on this, then.”

“What other choice do we have? The forest has to move. A new road has to be built. Think of how much easier the life of the parishioners will be made when-”

“ _Alright_.”

In all honesty, Childermass had not meant to interrupt Segundus; he had least of all meant to be brusque. He had, however, not meant to assent either, prepared to fight against the decision of the other magician, but right when he had started thinking of a suitable reply John Segundus had taken his arm again, begun, almost unconsciously, to tap his fingers against Childermass’s forearm- a gesture most natural considering how jittery he always was. Childermass had found himself surprized, which had brought inevitably to his capitulation, albeit it had maybe been a more cutting capitulation that he had intended; immediately he saw Segundus’s complexion change momentarily, as if he were struck by a sad thought.

“If you would rather a more experienced practical magician did the magic...”

“I would have no one but you,” said Childermass, and immediately regretted it. How final this has sounded, how almost like a disclosure! But Segundus had merely laughed his nervous laugh; Childermass thought that he could see a new sort of resolution in the minute movements of Segundus’s features.

“Let us do this then,” he said. And just like that, Childermass found himself tied to Segundus again.

The spell was suspiciously straightforward. It consisted in binding together the wrists of the two magicians, who were then to recite a spell together. The spell, found in Ormskirk, worked as a theatrical _canovaccio_ in which one of the two magicians- Childermass himself, in fact-, would symbolize the forest, and the other- Segundus, quite aptly-, the community of mankind. It was Segundus’s belief that the forest would then do their bidding, in sympathy, so to speak. There was the trap, however; that Ormskirk provided only the crudest base for the magic, and most of the work had had to be done by them. In the frantic last days at Starecross they had worked on the spell with enthusiasm, inventing wherever Ormskirk lacked an answer. They had thus set upon adding to it an epitome of Selfless Generosity, for the forest was a stubborn creature and it would do them well to appeal to its best sentiments. They had also composed a _florilegium_ so that the animals could find their way back into their trees and burrows, which invoked, at the suggestion of Mr Segundus, the patron of all wild beats Saint Blaise. Since the forest was also populated with spirits, and since they might not be happy of being relocated after long centuries, the two magicians had also fashioned a skimmer of supplication, to make the spirits feel included in their decision.

And so it came to casting the spell.

For all their fussing with it, Childermass could not help but feel a sort of nervousness; the magic that they were about to do felt to him not as much a contract with the forest, but more of a dark force binding him and Segundus together. He felt, silly as it sounded, not _a forest_ , as the spell required, but something else, like a tapestry of sorts. This feeling mounted in him as they were pronouncing the words, and even more when, the spell having been pronounced and his hand still in Segundus’s, he felt a species of chords uncoiling through him in iridescent lines, their warp and weft stretching invisible meridians across Segundus’s body and his own.

When the magic was over he felt that he and Segundus were linked, not only at the wrist, which they still were, but in their very soul, and inextricably. Which was of course disquieting.

It was, however, not as disquieting as the first thing he saw when the magic was over; which was dryads, clad in sheer golden cloth, coming to them dancing and singing and blowing on reed flutes. At the same time, as if summoned by the spell itself, came a couple of greenfinches; they bore in their beaks crowns of daisies, which they let fall on the heads of Childermass and Segundus. As soon as that was done the greenfinches joined the chorus of dryads, and there came all the other creatures of the forest (which for its part had not moved an inch), crowding the sunny clear in which stood the two perplexed magicians, still bound in red rope and now crowned in flowers. Bees buzzed in their ears, magpies and squirrels sat curiously on the trees; a doe came to them cautiously but bravely, nudging Segundus with her head so that he almost lost his balance, and that he fell in Childermass’s arms.

“What is this?” Muttered Childermass through his teeth, a chill overtaking him. Segundus raised confused eyes up at him, the daisy crown falling on his forehead; even in the confusion of the moment this made Childermass felt a queasiness in him, so that he had to push the other man away from him, a little bit more vehemently that he would have otherwise (admitted that John Childermass would have ever willingly pushed John Segundus away from himself, that is).

“Christian, we are rejoicing with thee!”

Childermass and Segundus shuddered at the same time: a dryad had appeared at Childermass’s side, entwining Childermass’s shoulders with her long arms, in colour and in texture like the young green branches of the trees.

“Four hundred years have passed since we have witnessed our last marriage!”

“Uh-oh,” said Segundus. Childermass’s elocution of surprize was not as polite. They looked at one another. They looked, not with a certain sense of alarm, at the butterflies dotting a patch of sunlight like many motley paper strips; at the hares jumping merrily in the bushes, and at the pile of wild berries that a murder of crows was painstakingly deposing at their feet.

“This is very embarrassing,” said Childermass. In truth, he was not embarrassed in the least. He found that he was laughing; he felt, against every probability, a sense of contentment welling up in his chest, an insinuating sense of bright happiness. This was bizarre, but it curiously did not give him pause; besides he was distracted: Segundus had a flush high in his cheeks, and confused big eyes and twigs in his hair, which a dryad was trying to braid; he had been soft and warm in Childermass’s arms not mere minutes before. Childermass found that he could not avert his gaze from him. “We are marr-”

“Please don’t say it!” Segundus interrupted him, hands joining against his chest as if in prayer. All of a sudden Childermass’s laugh, the contentment he had felt, felt very far away.

“We have to stop this, Mr Childermass.”

“Aye,” said Childermass batting a hand on his shoulder, upon which had sat a trilling sparrow.

“We cannot be married,” said Segundus.

“We cannot,” repeated Childermass, and felt his mouth becoming very stiff, as if all smiles had dried away from him. This was of course ridiculous; it had been ridiculous to laugh at their accident, ridiculous to let himself hope- not that there had ever been a hope, not yet; but he had been on the brink of it, which was in itself very dangerous. When Segundus took his arm, he felt almost nauseous.

“Let us go back to Starecross, Mr Childermass. I am sure that we will found a solution.”

 

 

In fact, they did not find a solution. All the afternoon and the rest of the evening they sat in the library, not even interrupting their research for the light supper that they consumed whilst reading. But there simply seemed to be no solution to their condition.

There were of course, in collexions of popular tales, many accounts of magical weddings; weddings of women with faeries, or of men with foxes, or even stories of weddings between two magicians which resembled very much that of Childermass and Segundus. What there was no mention of was a magical divorce, which was what they so desperately needed. And so it was that they continued their studies until it was well into the evening, until the sun had set and they had had to light candles, to light a fire to keep them warm in the early Spring night.

“Mr Childermass, come here!” Exlaimed Segundus suddenly, just when Childermass was about to propose that he should go to bed.

“What now, Mr Segundus.”

“Here, in Magical Tales for the Young Gentleman.”

Childermass got up from the pillowed chaise on which he was drinking his tea, to reach Segundus who sat at a desk across the room from him; there leant behind Segundus’s chair, a hand on its back, to better read the line he was being shewn. So close to Segundus he was that he could smell the scent of his hair: it made him think of honey, warmed to almost a golden colour in the light of the fire- it made him want to bury his nose there. He straightened his back, in his throat the knot of self-contempt.

“The Cobbler and the Widow?”[1] He asked.

“I think it is a path to follow. There is in it a pattern of magic wedding and divorce which I think is very apt to our situation.”

“But we do not know a faerie king.”

“Do we not, Mr Childermass?”

“We could never contact him.”

“We never tried.”

“And you propose we summon him? You of all people?”

“I do not imagine I would be able to summon him. But maybe we could pay him a visit? The story after all is very clear on the need to go to the court directly when in need of a kingly favour.”

“And you would risk as much?”

“We have to rectify this, Mr Childermass. What if our condition is discovered? Worse, what will happen if we want to get married to another, and we cannot?”

“What if indeed,” said Childermass, crossing his arms not without an ounce of bitterness. He did not care about polite society. He did not care about marrying another, ever; he cared about Mr Segundus, and of how beautiful he looked surrounded by books, how determined, how brave. “We shall go then.”

“I think we shall. Besides, it is Stephen Black we are talking about. Was he or was he not among the most decent of people?”

Childermass sighed. “I suppose now, with all the dryads we know, it would not be too hard to ask for information.”

“Will we need to use the King’s Roads?”

“That we shall. I am sorry for this. I know how much you fear them.”

“Ah- that. Well I think... If I am with you, that is-”

But Segundus did not finish to say what he was saying. Right in that moment a loud thud resounded in the room. Upon investigating the source of the noise they discovered that it came from a window, against which a big barn owl was launching itself in the desperate effort to get in. The two magicians, more bemused than anything, let the poor creature in. It immediately flew away again with a great flurry of wings and a great hooting noise, not, however, before having deposited a bouquet of wild flowers in Childermass’s arms.

“That’s it. That’s it, Mr Segundus. Tomorrow we shall consult the dryads.

 

 

The day after John Childermass awoke with the sun on his face. He gave a big yawn, he rubbed his eyes and he stretched himself, glad that his joints did not creak as much as they usually did. He then rolled on his right side, for he usually slept on his left side facing the wall, and he gasped. On the other side of the pillow, a grey-brown hare was facing him.

“Ehm,” he said.

“Good morning,” said the hare.

“Aaah!” Said Childermass. In all fairness, he did not so much say it as exclaimed it, banging his head on the wall behind him in surprize. “Ouch.”

“John Childermass!” Said  the hare, insensitive to all this. “Rise! And let us wake your own true love!”

John Childermass took pride in being a very adaptable man. So even in this situation he reined himself in to appear as unfazed as possible by the talking hare, and he swung his feet off the bed and he wore his once-good white shirt (for John Childermass, queer as it may sound, always slept in the nude). “ _My own true love_ ,” he mumbled, his voice still gravelly from sleep. “And who would that be?”

“But John Segundus, who else! Chop-chop, John Childermass, wear those breeches!”

Childermass, who was indeed in the process of pulling on his breeches, stopt abruptly. In the span of a second, for a second was all that it took him to regain his composed attitude, all the events of the previous day came back to his mind, which had been surprisingly empty of worry up until then (this was not at all a common occurrence in the life of John Childermass, who made a point of always having something to worry at).

“There is really no need.”

“It is your husbandly duty to make sure he does not oversleep.”

“I am sure he is awake already, Mr-?”

“Please do not be unreasonable Mr Childermass. I am a hare. I have no second name. Besides I am a she-hare.”

The hare spoke in a high-pitched fast voice; it (she) spoke in human language, but there was something, to the tone of her voice, unmistakably of the hare- something unmistakably of the hare in the way she raised her ears to a new sound in the house, crouching against the floor when an unmistakably human voice shrieked from the corridor.

“What now!” Said Childermass. He scooped the hare up in his arms with little ceremony, which gained him an indignant kick against his side, and he opened the door to the corridor, still in his shirtsleeves, to see what was happening.

“Mr Childermass! Oh Mr Childermass!”

The maid, Miss Eliot, practically threw herself into his arms, unbalancing the tray that she was bearing. At her heels were two magpies, four field mice, another hare and Brutus, the shepherd dog of the nearby farm.

“What is this, Miss Eliot?”

“I was about to bring Mr Segundus his breakfast when these wild animals appeared, Mr Childermass, trying to steal the tray!,” said Miss Eliot, not moving away from him, pressing her generous bosom against his chest with her big brown eyes almost teary behind long lashes.

Childermass took the tray from her hands and balanced it on one forearm, his other arm being currently full of hare. Behind Miss Eliot’s shoulders the two magpies, the four field mice, the other hare and Brutus the dog were looking at him _expectantly_ of all things. He sighed.

“Very well, Miss Eliot,” he said, extricating himself whence she had pinned him on the doorjamb, the tray held high upon his head with a dangerous rattling of cups. “Very well. I will see that Mr Segundus has his breakfast today. You are excused.”

“But Mr Childermass, these filthy animals!”

“I will see to it,” said Childermass with finality, struggling to keep under his arm the hare, which, at the mention of being called filthy, had threatened Miss Eliot to engage in a match of fisticuffs with her.

“Did that hare just talk, Mr Childermass?”

“Hares do not talk. You are very shocked, Miss Eliot. Just go, Miss Eliot.”

Miss Eliot, surely appearing a bit worse for wear, made to the stairway in an uncharacteristically wobbly step. When she had a soft one hand on the wooden handrail she seemed to think better of it, and turned around to face Childermass once again. “I am in your debt,” she said. “If you come down to the kitchen there will be hot cross buns for you,” she added. For some reason on her mouth it seemed like “hot cross buns” meant something else entirely from “hot cross buns”. Childermass decided not to prod further.

“I do not doubt it Miss Eliot. Good bye,” he said, and let go of the hare, which fell on the floor with a graceful jump. All together, Childermass, the hare, the two magpies, the four field mice, the other hare and Brutus the dog, walked to Mr Segundus’s room at the end of the corridor.

Childermass knocked.

“I said you cannot braid my hair!” Came a voice from the inside, and then: “I am sorry but I am engaged Miss Elliot! Ouch!”

“It is me, Mr Segundus. Mr Childermass.”

“Oh! Oh then come in, please.”

Childermass opened the door, but was unable to cross the threshold; immediately the two magpies, the two hares, the four field mice and Brutus the dog threw themselves into the room, no doubt to join the crow, the cat and the three sparrows which were already there.

When finally Childermass managed to make his way through the door, carefully closing it behind him, he saw that Segundus was sitting in bed, with the light from the window shining on his soft-looking skin. His hair were mussed from sleep and no doubt from the endeavours of braiding it of the wild animals. Indeed he looked a bit wild himself despite his posture being most civil, what with the counterpane on his straight legs and his hands primly on the counterpane; then again, thought Childermass, John Segundus was a man of contradictions. He had lovely crow’s feet around his eyes and his hair were now almost completely (endearingly) gray, yet he laughed with something of the child when Brutus the dog, a huge white thing, jumped on his lap, his tongue lolling. Like a content child Segundus sighed and let himself be licked on the face as he scratched the dog behind the ears.

“Good morning, Mr Childermass.”

“The animals scared Miss Eliot,” croaked Childermass. “I thought it best to dismiss her.”

“And a very kind thought of you,” said Segundus, his eyes still full of mirth. Just as he made to leave the bed Brutus the dog made a sound like rumbling, and he seemed to resign himself to stay and pet him some more.

Childermass stood still in the middle of the room, finding that he was equally unable of going back and moving forth, transfixed by the sight of Segundus in the morning, woozy and slow and generous with his smiles. He felt the irrepressible desire to crawl in bed with him; he knew that he could not: he longed.

And so he stood, and he stayed, with Segundus on the other side of the room equally incapable of uttering a word. The one crow, the two magpies and the three sparrows circled him, and removed the breakfast tray from his hands with perfected ease, to deposit it on Mr Segundus’s legs- which of course exposed its contents to the perusing nose of Brutus, which was in that moment half-stretched on the full figure of Segundus. The hare that had been in Mr Childermass’s room left his side to disappear to a corner of the room, whence she emerged with a flower, doubtlessly stolen from the composition on the windowsill. She arranged in Segundus’s hair.

“Here,” she said, breaking the silence of the room. “Beautiful.”

“Aaah!” Said Segundus.

It took some time for Childermass to explain to Segundus the presence of a talking hare; that done, they ascertained together that the other hare, a he-hare, could talk as well, and so could the cat and the field mice, which resulted in  great confusion and ultimately in a  heated political debate among the field mice and the cat. The combined endeavours to make the fight cease had the effect of making Childermass and Segundus again familiar with each other, perhaps for the first time since the beginnings of their ordeal. When finally there was silence in the room, with the cat sent off to doze on the windowsill, the field mice chewing on a piece of bread, the hares intent on choosing Mr Segundus’s outfit for the day, the birds perching on the bed knobs and Brutus the dog still sitting on Segundus’s lap, Segundus smiled. He patted the empty portion of bed in front of him, delightfully clumsy.

“Will you come here, Mr Childermass?”

“I intended to leave.”

“There’s- ah, if you. But I presumed. The breakfast is enough for the both of us. I even have a spare cup,” said Segundus, and from the drawer of the bedside cabinet produced indeed a flower-patterned china teacup. This was so endearingly whimsical that Childermass laughed despite himself, and obeying to Segundus went to sit on the bed in front of him. Barefooted as he was he lifted a leg on the mattress, the other one on the floor to keep his grounding, almost to remind himself that this was not his place after all.

Segundus torn a bread roll with his fingers, offering half of it to Childermass. He started buttering his half as Childermass poured the tea. Brutus the dog sighed, scooting closer to the two men, and Childermass gave him a scrap of his bread, gaining for himself the tingling raspy wetness of the dog’s tongue on his fingers. It was so simple a pleasure, breakfast in bed with a dog on one’s lap! And yet he had never felt it, never before felt so at ease with someone else sharing bread and butter, drinking tea with heavy clotted cream.

“Thank you,” said Childermass, perhaps an ounce more heartfelt than he had meant.

“Do not think of it,” smiled Segundus, stretching himself like a cat, smudges of cream on the sides of his lips.

They ate in silence. It was, it should be noted, not an unpleasant, tense sort of silence, but the benign one of people who are good friends, who are consuming good food and who intend to profit of each other’s company. When they were done Segundus placed the tray on the floor, whence the four field mice picked it up to bring to the kitchen (the crow opened the door for them), no doubt to the chagrin of Miss Eliot.

“I think the day is off to a good start, after all,” mused Segundus cautiously.

Childermass smiled half a smile, pointing with his head to the two magpies on the bed. “ _Two for joy_. As far as omens go, they seem to be with us.”

They smiled at each other, each one seemingly not wanting to stir. In their companionable breakfast Childermass had grown more at ease, did not sit as stiffly now as he had before, but relaxed himself against a poster of the bed, letting himself close his eyes, breathing in the soft scent of clean linen.

“What do you say to departing for the forest in two hours’ time?” Asked Segundus.

Childermass felt his incipient smile freeze on his features, his posture grow stiff once again. He opened his eyes. “Aye. I shall ready some refreshing then.”

“You know-” started Segundus, and made almost as if to put a hand on Childermass’s leg. He almost immediately seemed to think better of it. “You know that you are not a servant in this house, but a friend, Mr Childermass. You do not need to-”

“I know that I am not; I am all the more merry for it. But I suppose that certain habits are difficult to get rid of. Besides I do not dislike it.”

“Will you ask Mrs Cooke to pack some Swiss rolls then? I was thinking we could offer them to the dryads.”

“Always considerate.”

Segundus bowed his head in a shy movement, a bit like a flower, and made the flower in his hair fall on his lap. He toyed with it gently, careful not to tear the delicate petals apart. “Mr Childermass-” he ventured, but right in that moment he moved his foot a bit clumsily under the counterpane, brushing Childermass’s thigh. It was all that it took for them to remember the distance they should keep. Childermass coughed, got up, made half a bow.

“I shall leave now. Good morning, Mr Segundus. Thank you for the breakfast.”

 

 

When midday struck, Childermass and Segundus mounted on the gig that Charles the footman had had prepared for them, and, Childermass conducing with Segundus on his side, they made their way to the forest.

It was a lovely day. The birds were chirping, and the air was redolent with the scent of honeysuckle; the brook murmured in its bed and the leaves rustled in the trees, and for the short span of the way, as he steered the carriage with practiced ease, Childermass let himself not think of their goal, but only of the blessings of Spring, and of the small smile of Segundus, and of his soft hair, the scent of which he had caught a whiff of the night before.

When the forest was in sight they dismounted from the carriage, freeing Philip, the big pack horse, so that he could get a drink of water. Segundus offered the horse an apple, they tied it to a nearby tree and on they went, in the deep of the forest where the dryads had their dwellings.

It did not take them long to find them. Despite dryads being elusive creatures, they seemed to have taken a liking to them, much as the animals of the forest and those of Starecross. Besides, in the short walk from the limits of the forest to its center (for it was not a big forest), Childermass and Segundus had gained a bustling, lively coda of animals; there were magpies and porcupines, swallows and a very fat badger. It was nearly impossible to go unnoticed with such a cortège, and unnoticed they went not, for as soon as they reached the same clear in which they had pronounced the spell, they were greeted by two dryads, who had just before been laughing and singing one of the lewd, fast-paced songs of their kind.

“Mr Childermass!”

“And Mr Segundus!”

“We rejoice!”

“We are overly gay!”

“What brings you here!”

“And why is Mr Segundus still a maiden?”

This final sentence, delivered by the oldest of the dryads with her finger pointed towards Segundus, had the effect of making Segundus blush, Childermass cough and both of them anxious to change the topic of discussion.[2]

“We,” started Childermass, for Segundus would not talk; but he was interrupted. As soon as he moved towards the dryads he almost toppled on the very fat badger, who had decided to throw itself at his feet to have its belly scratched. He knelt, letting the creature rub its big head on his belly as he patted it. “We wish to ask you for advice.”

“We seek the help of a Faerie King,” said Segundus, seemingly having found his voice again. He had a squirrel sitting among the folds of his tricorn hat and several butterflies on his jacket, like gaudier happier military decoration. His cheeks were still red from the way the dryads had addressed him, and for the hot weather of the day. He was astoundingly handsome, Childermass thought, and immediately dismissed the thought as silly.

“And why would that be?” Asked the dryads, which were really nosy creatures.

“We merely wish to pay him a visit,” smiled Segundus, in his eyes a brief shadow of guilt, no doubt, at having to tell a lie.

“And who of the many faerie kings do you seek?”

“Truth is, we do not know the name of his kingdom,” said Segundus, turning his head to Childermass for help (a lark affectionately pecking at his ear, the squirrel in his hat dangling its tail in front of his eyes).

Childermass got up again, knees aching, which made the badger rise on its hinder legs, nosing at Childermass’s thigh. “We were hoping you could tell us. His reign is very recent. He was a Christian. I do not think there are many faerie Kings like him.”

“A Christian?”

“Could it be...”

“The king of Woe Betide!”

“With a skin so black..!”

“And so handsome a complexion...”

“Handsome! Exactly! It cannot be other than him!” Exclaimed Segundus, laughter on his lips. Childermass gazed at him, flummoxed. “If you would be so kind to direct us to him, for we have a rather urgent query.”

“I thought you just wanted to pay him a visit!”

“Ahem.”

Luckily, despite being nosy as they were, the dryads were not very dedicated creatures, and as soon as they got distracted with inspecting Childermass’s hat they forgot to further pursue their qualms as to why the magicians wished to see the King of Woe Betide. They forgot, to be fair, also the information that they were supposed to give to the magicians, so that Childermass found himself obliged to remind them.

“Oh, yes,” said one of the dryads.

“That,” said the other, in the act of wearing Childermass’s hat. It fell on her forehead, hiding her eyes, to which she reacted with a delighted laugh.

“You shall cross the Blood Pond.”

“Blood Pond?” Asked Segundus, whose face was contacting in the effort of not appearing aghast.

“Why, of course.”

“Thither you shall go forward until the Mound of Sad Endeavours.”

“And turn right at the Big Elm.”

“The Big Elm, mind, Christians, not the Very Big Elm.”

“You go into the Big Elm.”

“You pay her our regards and ask her if the Very Big Elm fares well.”

“Inside there you take not the one, not the second, but the third passage on the left.”

“You want to pay attention to this; the second one is inhabited by out Aunt.”

“She has very bad digestion.”

“She is a dragoness.”

“So you go out from the Big Elm, and you turn right. Immediately you will find yourself in front of the Gates of Woe Betide.”

“And then it is done.”

“It is done.”

“We cross the Blood Pond, meet the Big Elm, take the third turn to the left, go out, turn right, and we are there?” Asked Childermass again, for clarity’s sake. Segundus seemed rather too daunted by the prospect too talk, as daunted that is as a man can look while having butterflies in his hair.

“And you pay our respects to the Big Elm.”

“And you ask her how the Very Big Elm is faring.”

“We are incredibly thankful. We assure you that we will do as you asked.”

“We promise,” added Segundus, who at last seemed to have found his voice again. He rummaged in his satchel, whence he produced a small parcel of brown paper, its surface patched by the lucid shimmer of butter, which he offered to the dryads.

“OOOH,” said the one who was still wearing Childermass’s hat.

“UUUUH,” echoed the other, grabbing the parcel with little ceremony. Together they ripped the paper like small, pointed-teethed, terrifying animals, and together they made a delighted gurgle at the sight of the Swiss rolls that the two magicians had had packed.

“We accept this feast as a recompense for our advice,” said the second dryad among bites to the soft dough, with crumbles in her hair and her chin greasy.

“And we will keep your hat,” said the first one, pointing to Childermass with her hat-covered head.

“We really like it.”

“We will think of you while wearing it.”

“That is most gracious,” said through gritted teeth Childermass, who was calculating the price of a felted hat and the time of delivery from London.

“We have no words to thank you,” said Segundus, holding fast to his tricorn hat.

Thus settled the matter with the dryads they made their way back to the carriage, deciding that they would set for the Kingdom of Woe Betide on the morrow of the following day.

Though it was already five o’ clock, the sun had not yet set. Spring was already working its miracles on England, stretching the days, making the wind warmer and the nights fragrant, and it was working its miracles on Mr Segundus, who had his nose and cheeks reddened by the sun, who had the scent of a grassy meadow and who talked confidently of magic on the first half of the way to Starecross. On the second half of it he fell asleep on Childermass’s shoulder, a sweet dozy weight who mumbled sweetly, and Childermass, who was, he thought, an incredibly weak man, did not wake him up.

 

* * *

 

 

[1] The story of the Cobbler and the Widow is of great interest, and deserves to be reported here. It narrates of a young, good-looking cobbler of Ely, who had attracted, to his dismay, the attentions of an older widow. For months the widow had tried and tried to marry the young good-looking cobbler, but to no avail. She had thus decided to recur to the services of a sorceress living nearby, who had taught her a spell to tie her in marriage to the object of her desire.

Let us imagine the surprise of the young man when, on a fine Spring day, he had discovered that he was married to the older widow, and that he was married not in front of God, as it should be, but in front of all the dark creatures that lived in the nearby wood. It is told that, in his dismay, he sought the help of a magician, and together they summoned a faerie who revealed them that the only way to make the marriage null was to beg at the court of a faerie king. That the cobbler did, and with that he managed to rid himself of his unwanted wife, who took repair in the countryside with the sorceress, the both of them now in disgrace.

Another, less popular version of the story has the widow as protagonist, lured into marriage by a young sly cobbler who wanted to partake of her generous estate. In the end, quite like in the more famous version, she manages to escape the marriage, repairing to the countryside to lead a quiet existence with her good friend the sorceress.

[2] It also made Childermass, later, ponder about the definition of maidenhood of the dryads, and about Segundus’s amorous encounters, or lack thereof.


	2. Chapter 2

They set up for the Kingdom of Woe Betide at noon.

The night before Childermass and Segundus had decided to meet in the library of Starecross, and to invite there the twenty-five pupils of the academy. They had both agreed to keep the pupils in the dark about the real reason for their venture, but Segundus had entreated that they should make an educational moment out of their passing the mirror, and so it was that at eleven thirty the students sat in the warmth of the room with notebooks on their knees, while Childermass readied himself to cast the spell.

He felt a certain nervousness creeping about him as he expounded it to the pupils, as he interrogated them on the protection spells they knew (Doncaster, Pale and Pevensey; Strange), and as he taught them a slightly modified version of the latter. On the settee Segundus regarded Childermass with his mouth half-open and his head bobbing gently in acknowledgment, watchful and warm, and this attentive gaze about his person did not help with how Childermass felt his neck unpleasantly clammy, his voice not quite easy, and in his heart like a strange sense of loss (which he thought must be the marriage spell protecting itself from being broken, for certainly it must be aware of their purpose as magical things are wont to be).

When Childermass had finished his explanation, which had gone somewhat long-winded, he received with good grace the applause of the students, and with less good grace the grip of Segundus’s hand on his arm. He cast the spell with the ease that custom granted, and in a matter of sheer minutes they made their passage through the mirror with their arms linked, Segundus’s clutch surprisingly spasmodic for one with such small hands.

 

“Here we are, Mr Segundus,” said Childermass when they were through the mirror, in what he thought was his most comforting tone. “See, nothing to fear. Here we are,” he repeated as he gently extricated his arm, which had gone quite numb, whence it was tied to Segundus’s. He finally managed so with a jerky movement; Segundus seemed too shocked to contribute, quite lost to the world; so Childermass made his voice gentle when he asked, “Are you quite well, Mr Segundus.”

“I am, Mr Childermass. Thank you,” said Segundus, albeit quite distractedly; and indeed he was now looking at the panorama of the King’s Roads with a sort of childish wonder in his eyes, with a delight that made them wide and bright. He had his hands endearingly clutched on his chest as he said: “Only I had not thought I would feel the magic so much. Your magic, that is.” He coughed. “I thought myself to be-”

But he was interrupted.

“I am well too, thank you, magicians,” said a voice from Segundus’s satchel.

“AAAH!” Said the magicians, together.

“This is getting tiring,” responded the voice, which belonged to the very same she-hare who had appeared in Childermass’s room the previous morning,and who was at present hastily insinuating her head beneath the fold of the satchel.

“Mrs Hare,” said Segundus, fumbling with the latches of the bag so that she could gaze around her more comfortably, perched on the edge of the bag with her forward legs out as if from a windowsill.

“ _Miss_ Hare if you please, do not be ridiculous Mr Segundus.”

“I am sorry.”

“I am not married. I am merely six months old.”

“I am very sorry,” Segundus repeated, but if Childermass were to be at all earnest, he did not seem very sorry at all; he looked giddy, and quite dizzy as he still gazed around him as if trying to impress in his mind the memory of the roads. Childermass, who by now knew Segundus quite well, felt sure that, had they more time, he should want to take notes, or even, had they _a long time_ , sketch, which Childermass _knew_ that Segundus was good at and yet had never seen him do, and would like very much to see.

(He made a point for himself to bring Segundus to the King’s Roads again in the future, so that he could sketch to his heart’s content, and to Childermass’s. He though to teach him the spell even, although he would always go with him of course, for the roads were quite dangerous.)

“So the King’s Roads, huh?” Said Miss Hare, who too was looking around her, her small pink nose twitching amidst the unknown smells.

“...Why ever are you here?” Asked Childermass, maybe a small bit brusquely.

This brusqueness was of course not derived from a hardness of heart. The truth was that Childermass had been less impressed with the King’s roads than with Segundus from the start, being more used to the roads and less to Segundus-on-the-roads, and he feared that his attention (a devoted, soft-eyed attention at that) would soon start shewing on his face.

“I am here to make sure that you both are presentable.”

“Presentable,” repeated Childermass as he gingerly started to walk the steep path of stones that led towards the Blood Pond, gesticulating towards Segundus that he should follow him.

“Why yes, for your honeymoon.”

“I beg your pardon?” Asked Segundus, and it was a credit to his character that he could still talk: as soon as he had set foot on the path and acknowledged how high uphill it led, how narrow it was in points, he had turned as pale as a sheet.

“Is this not your honeymoon?” Asked the hare, unimpressed, with her head slightly bent as if she were stating such an obvious fact as “does not the earth circle around the sun”?1

Childermass did not deign this with an answer. “Mr Segundus, let me help you,” he said, and ignoring Segundus’s protests he took the satchel from him with an air of finality. He did not dare to offer more; he did not dare to take his arm again, to hold his hand through the hardest passages where he would stumble on his too-worn shoes. But this he could do, and did.

In the end, they managed to make it to the top of the hill just as the sun was setting. It was not that night and day were all so different in the perennial silvery haze of the King’s Roads; but stars had just begun to dot the sky, and a soft glow was all around them despite there being no moon. A light, however, similar to that of a waxing moon, shone upon the Blood Pond.

“ _Beautiful_ ,” said Segundus, a little out of breath from the walk, and Childermass felt his heart somersault, and then knot upon itself as if in protection.

“I suppose it is,” he said, and made to tip his hat sardonically. This was very hard: he was not wearing his usual battered one, but one of Segundus’s moth-eaten tricorns; and tricorns, as everyone knows, are not very sardonic hats.

 

From up the hill they walked down a slight slope, a much easier path than the one they had hiked before. Their descent leisurely made, they found the mooring of the Blood Pond in front of them.

Even from such a close distance, the pond itself was very beautiful indeed. It was not as Childermass had imagined it, red and putrid, but dark blue and translucent, more like water, despite its name, than blood.2 It was alive with reeds and fish, and insects with wings like lace; all sorts of birds and frogs seemed to have taken their dwellings there, undisturbed. A boat was on the water’s edge, guarded by a goblin. They paid him a small fee of three onions and a marmalade jar and just like that they hopped on the boat and on they went, Childermass, Segundus and Miss Hare, to cross the lake.

While Childermass rowed with a leisurely pace, Segundus elected to sit on the bow, looking in awe at the lake and its inhabitants with Miss Hare sat snugly on his knees.

The Pond was more of a lake than anything else, wide and calm, and as they proceeded to its center they had bright red carps following in their trail, swimming around the boat and lunging out of the water in graceful leaps.

A particularly athletic feat from one of the carps left Segundus with the front of his shirt wet. Immediately Miss Hare went to his rescue, dabbing at the watery patch fretfully with a handkerchief stolen from Segundus’s jacket.

“Miss Hare, you really do not need to,” said Segundus, laughter brimming already, involuntarily, to his eyes; and then, to Childermass: “Is this normal behavior for carps?”

“Mmh,” was all of Childermass’s reply. His voice had chocked in his throat as soon as Segundus’s eyes, crow-feeted and warm with laughter, had locked with his.

“I wonder what other sort of animals live in this Pond,” ventured Segundus, undeterred. “It is fascinating, how life in Faerie (for we are in Faerie already Mr Childermass, are we not?) can mirror life on Earth. Do you think that these carps came from Earth? Do you think that they are of the same species which we find in our ponds and gardens? Do you think that we may take a specimen or two with us on our way back?”

“Ehm,” said Childermass.

In all fairness, this time it was not repressed affection chocking his voice. He had wanted to reply to Segundus that yes, the carps came from Earth, and that no, they had certainly undergone transformations due to the magic in the air, and finally that yes, of course, they should bring back some with them. However, right when Segundus was at his most conceited in his scientific curiosity, slimy tentacles had started to coil around the boat slowly but inexorably. Childermass pointed them out to his companions with a small gesture of his chin.

To his credit, Segundus did not scream. He merely blushed, and then paled, and held Miss Hare, who was all a-trembling, closer to his chest. “What do we do now,” he whispered.

“We think of all the protective spells we know,” said Childermass, ever the magician; but for good measure he retrieved an oar from the water and held it in his hand like a weapon of sorts.

The tentacles were now firmly holding the boat, and soon they started rocking it with enough momentum that the men had to hold themselves on the sides of it just to keep from falling onto one another. Childermass prepared himself to cast Pale’s Safety and Protection, for all the good it could do them, but right at that moment the tentacles started to turn the boat around with surprising gentleness. Slowly, at an almost theatrical pace, a big purple head emerged from the water swollen and grotesque, emitting sounds like an enormous bassoon. The sounds were:

_Da da doom- do. Da da doom- do. Da da doom- do. Da da doom- do._

“What.” Said Segundus, his thin lips tense, engaged in the struggle to look at the Kraken (for Kraken it was!) even as Miss Hare climbed unsteadily from his bosom to perch on the top of his head.

Childermass merely shook his head, oar still firmly gripped in his hands. From afar he could see the outlines of birds stirring; herons and starlings and geese that soon started to float all around them, opening and closing their wings, or to fly upon their heads, joining the verses of the Kraken with shrill but not unpleasant voices. The carps were streaming madly in the water, jumping out of it in dance-like, hazardous leaps; fireflies had started to dot the evening dusk all around their little boat, projecting around them the hazy light of small candles suspended in the air.

Childermass and Segundus looked at each other in puzzlement. Miss Hare, unfazed, started beating her paws to the rhythm.

“I _like_ this song!”

“I do not know this song,” murmured Childermass.

“It is a _famous_ song,” pointed out Miss Hare.

Segundus chuckled, and removing his hat, he put a hand to his damp forehead. Immediately fireflies started to buzz around him in a complicated coreography. Their light caressed Segundus’s confused face, making the sharp edges of it even sharper, his eyes bigger and his nose more pointed.

Segundus was not a very attractive man; and yet as he considered this Childermass felt a very peculiar pain when the fireflies started nestling in his light hair like a glowy silver crown.

“Well, this is-” ventured Segundus, with his hands opening and closing in his lap.

“...Lovely,” blurted out Childermass, and, having realised the error of his ways, he made a point of staring at the nearby waters, where a goose was conducting a chorus of gosling into song.

“It is lovely. I suppose it is very kind of them,” said Segundus, who, almost unconsciously, had started to bob his head a little along to the rhythm.

“It is admittedly fascinating. Do you think,” coughed Childermass. “Do you think they do the same for all the travelers who cross the Pond, Mr Segundus?”

“Do not be preposterous!” Intervened Miss Hare, looking imposing from her vantage position on Segundus’s knees. “It is because you are _newlyweds_!”

This put a damper to their incipient enthusiasm.

However, Childermass and Segundus had not yet begun to look at each other in embarrassment (as they would be inevitably wont to do with their natural predispositions) that the Kraken broke into another song, this one slower than the first. The carps started swimming in lazy circles and the geese and gosling stopt singing, starting instead to play leaves of grass like tiny violins.

This time the song had words; and the words seemed to tell them, not quite so subtly, that they should kiss.

At first the two men tried to ignore this, and to ignore each other (a feat most difficult considering how they occupied the narrow space of a relatively small boat). But then something happened- Segundus’s gaze searched Childermass’s during a most heartfelt rendition of the refrain, and he had dimples at the corners of his mouth, and soon they were laughing, Segundus hiding behind his handkerchief no doubt so as not to offend the performers, Childermass more openly, shaking his head as Miss Hare jumped to the side of the boat to better look at the ballet of fish.

“What do you say, Mr Childermass,” said Segundus when he had composed himself again, his posture relaxed and almost soft in the quiet evening, as the Kraken gently rotated the boat. He bent his figure just so that he could look at Childermass almost conspiratorially.

“To what, Mr Segundus?” Asked Childermass, who felt for himself the sort of laxness that comes after a good laugh- who felt his chest lighter, his head almost woozy.

“Should we not give them what they want,” said Segundus, averting his gaze (and how delightful the creases around his eyes!) even as he lifted a hand no doubt to put on Childermass’s hand- all the while Childermass, for his part, assisted at the whole scene almost paralized- and then Segundus said no more. There was a sharp sound like the snap of a leash, and a sudden gush of water, and the boat capsized.

 

“What now!” Gasped Childermass as soon as he broke the surface again, seaweed in his hair and his great coat open around him, looking rather like a very angry, very long-nosed lily pad. He held to the capsized boat to catch his breath, and he cursed as it dawned on him that Mr Segundus had not emerged from the lake yet.

In what felt like an eternity he rid himself of his greatcoat, with trembling fingers clumsier than he had ever felt them; he tossed it on the boat haphazardly and plunged into the cold water.

Now Childermass had been a sailor in his youth, and he was a proficient swimmer; the rescue of Mr Segundus in the warm waters of the lake should not be hard. He felt, however, quite frantic and out of breath yet, which he put down to his age and to his smoking habits.

Even so, impaired as he was, it did not take him long to spot Mr Segundus, even though he was nothing more than a small green-black silhouette behind the reeds. In the darkness of the water he was struggling with something on the muddy bottom. Afraid that he should be hurt Childermass swam to Segundus, lake debris stinging his eyes, and saw that he was all set in the endeavour to free Miss Hare from whence she was trapped among a thick growth of seaweed. Immediately Childermass retrieved the pen-knife that he always kept about his person, and with that he set on hacking off the offending seaweed from Miss Hare’s body. When Miss Hare was finally free he tucked her under his arm, and made to resurface. His struggles, however, were not over, as it dawned upon him that Mr Segundus was most evidently incapable to swim, and was currently struggling against the mass of water in the strenuous effort to vanquish it. Childermass felt his heart jump in his chest, a metallic taste in his mouth like a sort of animal nervousness as he considered how to save both of his travel companions; he swam to Segundus, clumsy with one arm around Miss Hare. But just in that moment the eerie calm of the water was broken by strong, purple tentacles, which coiled around Segundus’s middle and Childermass’s ankle; and just like that they were again outside the water, into the now-turned boat.

“You _cannot swim_ ,” was the first thing that Childermass said to Segundus, through gritted teeth, even as he shook with cold (his greatcoat having no doubt fallen to the bottom of the lake by then).

“I’m sorry!” Said Segundus through coughs, hair plastered to his forehead, hat lost, looking every bit as miserable as his feeble, hoarse voice sounded.

“You’re _sorry_?”

“ _I’m_ sorry,” echoed the loud, mortified bassoon of the Kraken’s voice. “I got most excited and capsized the boat.”

Childermass glared at the Kraken. Segundus shook his shoulders.

“We forgive you,” he said with a shaky smile, which gained him a look of utmost contempt from Miss Hare. For her part she looked as forlorn as a hare could, ears flat against her body, body flat against Childermass’s thigh.

“If there is anything I can do to regain your trust!”

“Absolutely noth-” started Segundus, but Childermass cut him off.

“We lost our oars,” he said, pointedly. “Would you mind terribly-” he started, but at that the guilt-ridden Kraken took his cue and started pushing the boat towards the shore with deliberate gentleness.

“Thank you for saving me,” said Miss Hare to Segundus, breaking the tense silence right when it seemed to weigh too heavy upon them. Segundus acknowledged this with a gracious nod of his head. Childermass snorted.

“And thanks to you, Mr Childermass, for saving us,” said Segundus, as civil as if he were in the polite society, and not wet to his bones in a boat pushed by a Kraken.

Suddenly, and unexpectedly, the risible implausibility of their situation made itself known to Childermass. He felt a rage mount onto him; a feeling most extraneous to a man as he was, hardly prone to great leaps of sentiment.

“I could not have saved the both of you. Your coat made you too heavy. I was in a panick,” he admitted, quite more frankly that he would have wished. And then, as it dawned on him: “You could have died,” he murmured, a nausea mounting on him, skin clammy and heated even in the cold wind.

“Now Mr Childermass, let us not exaggerate.”

“I am not talking in practice, Mr Segundus, I am talking in theory,” said Childermass, who was by now rambling. “Had not our friend the Kraken been there- had not _I_ been there,” (this cost him to admit, that he could not have been there- that he would not always be there to protect Segundus) “You would have still endeavoured to save Miss Hare.”

“Why, yes of course.”

(At this Miss Hare, who had sensed the unease in the air, turned from them to start a casual conversation with the Kraken).

“You cannot swim.”

“I am aware.”

“You could have died.”

“I was not exactly thinking straight, Mr Childermass.”

“That is exactly the point, Mr Segundus.”

“Why are you chastising me?”

“Why are you always so _good_?” Snarled Childermass, with more rage that he intended. Segundus gave out a trembling sound, which could either be a laugh or a sob.

“You do not make it sound like a compliment.”

“It is not,” said Childermass, and with that the boat reached the shore.

 

Upon the shore there was much fretting on the part of the Kraken, and of course by then all the fish and the birds of the lake had come to bid their good-byes, with the result that Childermass, Segundus and Miss Hare spent yet a long time on the shore, wet (for none of the animals of the lake had considered a solution to this, as wetness was their natural status) and in a foul mood.

Thence they set to find the Big Elm. They had no problem in locating the Very Big Elm, which was a majestic sight to behold, high on a hill, towering on the forest with its huge knotted trunk and silver leaves chiming in the wind.

The Big Elm sat next to it, and was, for its part, almost reassuring. Even though two grown men such as Childermass and Segundus would not be able, if they wanted, to embrace its trunk with the full span of their arms, it looked almost dainty in comparison with its more robust neighbour.

They circled the Big Elm while shivering in the cold, looking for (this was risible!) a face to address. Not finding it, they resolved to address the whole tree, which made them speak in uncharacteristically loud voices.

“Is this the Big Elm?” Asked Segundus. “We are Mr John Segundus and Mr John Childermass, magicians from Starecross.”

“And Miss Hare.”

“We are looking for safe passage to the Kingdom of Woe Betide. Also we bring you greetings.”

“Oh, greetings? How delightful!” Said a tiny voice from above them.

It could well have been a squirrel, or a bird, for talking animals were something Childermass and Segundus were starting to get used to by then. It had, however, a strange vegetal quality to it, like leaves rustled by a Spring wind (for all that there was no wind), and Childermass knew immediately that this was the voice of the Big Elm.

“My lady,” he said, for the Dryads had told them that the Big Elm was a she-elm. “We bear you the greetings of-” here he stopt, for he did not know the proper names of the two Dryads. How to address them?

“Of the two Dryads who live in the forest of ***,” said Segundus, wet arms taut on his sides in a clear attempt not to shake like an unseemly leaf.

“Oh, the Two Dryads who Live in the Forest of ***!” Said the elm with what seemed like a spark of comprehension, although it was very difficult to discern what was a spark of comprehension in a creature with no face. “How fare the little darlings? I have known them since they were nought but young saplings!”

“They fare very well,” said Segundus.

“They have a new hat,” grumbled Childermass.

“How excellent!” Said the Big Elm, and even though she had no arms it seemed as if she were clapping her hands.

“And they enquire on the health of the Very Big Elm.”

“How delicate! He has grown very fat, but he is in otherwise good health.” Here the Big Elm shook as if under a Spring wind, cackling birds flying from her branches. “You are their acquaintances, then? Of the Two Dryads who live in the Forest of ***?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Childermass, as: “Yes!” Said Segundus.

“And you require safe passage.”

“Aye.”

“That is swiftly done.”

“Excellent!”

“But I am afraid that I will need a fee.”

“Uh-oh,” said Segundus. “Lady Elm, the fact is that- that is, we- we had an accident, and our boat capsized, and we do not have-”

“We did have some onions on us, but they got most wet,” helpfully provided Miss Hare.

“Oh, bother!” Exclaimed the elm. “What should we do? And you came this far! Oh! Oh, maybe..! I only require, if it is permissible, but a tiny thing.”

“Tell us and we shall give it to you,” said Childermass, who felt indeed very indisposed, what with the cold and the feeling of being wet to his bones and the incipient sense of guilt for how brusquely he had treated Segundus before.

“You are newlyweds,” she said, with her leaves crackling coquettishly. It took Childermass all of his effort not to roll his eyes skyward.

“We do not see many newlyweds holidaying in these lands. I would like to ask- if it is permissible that is. Maybe you could tell me the story of how you first knew that- that is, for I assume that it was a _love_ wedding.”

Both Childermass and Segundus coughed at the same instant. They gazed at each other, each menacing to start laughing, and then they simultaneously remembered that they had fought and averted their gaze, which sunk Childermass’s incipient glee.

“Go on then,” said Miss Hare, who had remained silent up until then.

“Ahem,” said Childermass.

“Ehm,” said Segundus. But then his face lit up with the universal expression of a Good Idea, and he raised a finger in the air, as he was wont to do when he started lecturing his students.3 “It was he who first had me doing magic.”

“Oooh,” said Miss Hare.

“I do not think I would have had it in me to try, but. He told me to do the magic, with his voice all serious, as if I could _really_ do it. And so I did.”

The elm shook her head of leaves as if to say, _but it is obvious!_ , and Childermass rolled his eyes; he did so, however, half-heartedly, the truth being that Segundus’s utterance had said rung suspiciously true in his ears, akin to what he himself felt. Indeed, although he could not pinpoint precisely the moment he had fallen painfully (inconveniently!) in love with Mr Segundus, if he could but choose one day by convention, so to speak, there he would put his finger, on the one in which he had bid Segundus to do the magic for Lady Pole, even with all its chaos and heartbreak. Segundus had looked frail, almost transparent in his nightshirt, and Childermass had felt the same tenuous quality on himself, his soul weighed down by magic stronger than his whole existence. He had been scared and weak, and Segundus had taken his arm and conducted him, blind arm in arm with the blind, to the solution of Lady Pole’s riddle, to his new life- sweetly, gently. It would have taken a coarse man not to fall in love, and Mr Childermass, who despite his appearance was not a coarse man, had done so desperately.

“And you, Mr Childermass?”

Childermass shuddered. When he turned his attention to his exterior again, he saw that Miss Hare and Segundus were looking at him expectantly. Even the Big Elm, which was characteristically eyeless, seemed to have her head of leaves turned towards him.

“I- er,” he said not very eloquently, a pasty feeling in his mouth. And then: “’Twas the aame thing,” which was doubtlessly a disappointing reply judging from how Miss Hare’s shoulders sank, from how the Big Elm shook its twigs; from how, even, Segundus’s countenance suddenly seemed to droop. And because no one was talking anymore, “We really must away now,” he said, rendered uncomfortable with the heavy knowledge that he had said the wrong words.

And so, away they went. When they had bid their good-byes, the Big Elm, still all a-flutter for having visitors, moved her roots a little bit so that they could pass through them, and then underneath them.

It felt curiously, to Childermass, like hiding under the skirts of a peculiarly big woman. This was all in all a not-so-pleasant endeavour: for one, it was very stuffy. It also smelled rather unpleasantly of moist earth. The passage was so narrow that they had to crawl at first, earth sticking to their humid clothes, and when they finally were able to stand they had to count all the passages so that they did not disturb the dragoness who lived in the second one to the left- and then finally pass through the right one and emerge to the light through a long winded tunnel with narrow steps.

 

Out of the tunnels the sky was full of stars. The night was pleasantly warm with the jasmine scent of early summer, and in front of them stood an ornate gate, all iron flowers glinting in the moonlight. Guarding it was a faerie in splendid armour, long hair streaming silver down her back, silver moon playing gently on her olive skin. Despite her striking feminine beauty, she sat most ungracefully on what remained of the pillar of a long-forlorn edifice, and kept distracting herself with a translucent sphere of glass, inside which moved minuscule human-like figures.

“Madam?” Asked Segundus.

“Sssh,” said the faerie.

“Madam!” Urged on Childermass.

“I want to see what Egbert does next.”

“Cannot you _pause_?” Interjected Miss Hare.

“Uff,” said the faerie, but raised herself on her feet in a semblance of salute. She gave a half-hearted curtsy and said, in the flattest tone that her melodious voice allowed her: “Welcome to the Kingdom of Woe Betide, we are a friendly people, do not be afraid, we have not killed a Christian in sixty-two days. How can I help?”

“Well.” Said Segundus. He shuffled nervously on his feet, echoing, no doubt, the same feeling of Childermass- namely the feeling that sixty-two days is, all in all, not a very long time during which not to kill a Christian.

“We are seeking help from your king!” Exclaimed Miss Hare.

“For _what_.”

“This is no way to address a gentlewoman!” Said Segundus, his hands in tight little fists, at which Miss Hare, undecided whether to be insulted or pleased, elected to jump in his arms. Childermass, who was at heart a very pragmatic man, huffed.

“We have our own reasons. I believe that we are entitled not to tell you.”

“Are you.”

“We are, if it is a private matter among us and your King.”

“And what would _you_ have to share in private with my King?” Said the faerie, a long-nailed finger making a vague round shape connecting Childermass, Segundus and Miss Hare.

“We knew him when he was a Christian like us.”

The faerie laughed. “Not _like you_ , certainly!”

“How do you mean?”

“Is just that you are very ugly, and my king-”

“That’s it. That’s it, thank you. Can we get in?”

“I suppose you can. But you must answer a riddle first.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

1In truth, such a statement would not have been obvious for her, as hares are staunch believers of the geocentric theory.

2Childermass was wrong. The Blood Pond was indeed made of blood, or better, of the ichor of an enormous vermin killed there centuries before, the demise of which is narrated in the poem The Felling of the Wyrm.

3Childermass had studied this habit of Segundus many times,during his times at Starecross and, more secretly, in his silver basin when he felt the distance too keenly.


End file.
